


So Hungry

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, M/M, Torture, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 22:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has never been so close to surrendering ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Hungry

**Author's Note:**

> Coda to _My Bloody Valentine_.

“Please. I can’t—I need some help. Please?”

As hard as the words are to force out, the silence that follows is even worse. It grates against the broken pieces inside Dean’s chest—not that there are many of those left. Famine, the doddering, yellow-toothed bastard, was right about that much, anyway.

These days, it’s like Dean is holding a wasteland inside of himself—broad, bloodied skies rolled out over a brittle crust of rock. Thin, dry scratch of dust over the abrasive surface and the occasional twist of snapped bone, frail and wasted like a bit of bramble.

Pain is all he has left of himself now; his memories from Hell are riddled with it. Thirty fucking years beneath the lash and the knife, another ten on the other side, and he doesn’t even remember what it feels like to be clean anymore. He doesn’t remember happiness, or joy, or any of the softer emotions. The closest he can manage is a dull, listless weariness, and that only comes in the few moments when he’s too plastered to see straight. Not that he’s allowed many of those anymore, with Sam self-righteous and breathing down the back of his neck about how much he drinks.

The truth is, Dean felt Famine’s creeping touch as soon as they blew into town, same as everyone else.

He was just too used to being ravenous and empty to notice.

Dean’s eyes blur with unshed tears—lately, it isn’t so much a matter of being ashamed to cry as it is the instinctual drive for self-preservation that he can’t seem to stomp out. Crying doesn’t do anything but carve out more hollow space inside of him. Every tear that falls crumbles another shard of bone to dust. Adds another mile of nothingness to the empty, aching expanse within him.

Dean stands by the Impala for a minute longer, struggling with himself, and then heaves in a shaky breath. Fine. If God is going to keep His back turned on Dean, then Dean’s damn well going to turn his back on God.

Although his immediate plan is to get so shitfaced he won’t be able to tell which way he’s facing.

He turns, ready to head back to the house _(but not to Sam, not going down in the basement while Sam’s still screaming like that; it’s like being back in the fucking Pit)_ and then lets out a startled curse as he runs into a solid chest. The bottle falls from his hand and spills out on the dirt as Dean grabs for the knife at his waist, and then his eyes focus on the face before him and all of the spit dries up in his mouth.

“You,” he breathes.

Michael smiles at him. “In the flesh. So to speak.”

Dean shakes his head, trying to see past what has to be glamour, and the vision before him doesn’t change. It’s still Dad’s face looking back at him—and not the young man he and Sam saved a few weeks ago, but Dad as he was a year or so before his death. This is the grizzled hunter, bearded and scarred and sacred. This is the face of Dean’s personal God, and as he stares at those familiar features, forty years of Hell seem to compress into an instant. Dean can almost feel his life Before reaching out to him across the fire and ash: can feel the brush of warmth at his fingertips.

But Dad’s eyes were never this light—gleaming a coppery, hot color in the moonlight. And Dad never would have held his body the way Michael is standing right now. He never would have stood so close.

Dean takes a step back and collides with the Impala. Getting a hand out behind him to steady himself, he growls, “Get out of my head.”

Because Michael can’t be here. He can’t find Dean. Not with those Enochian sigils carved into Dean’s ribcage like the world’s strangest graffiti.

“Does it feel like I’m in your head, Dean?” Michael asks calmly, reaching out and cupping the side of Dean’s face with Dad’s hand.

Dean slaps the touch away immediately, his heart jackrabbiting in his chest, and slides backwards along the Impala’s side until his thigh is pressed up against the front end of the hood. Michael paces after him a few steps, an amused smile lifting his lips.

“You can’t be real,” Dean tries again. “You’re _not_. My dad’s dead.”

“John Winchester is dead, it’s true,” Michael agrees. “But not this one.” He touches his own chest with one hand, as though verifying for himself that there’s still a heart beating there. “I borrowed him from the year of Our Lord two-thousand-five.”

Fury floods Dean’s mouth with the hot, tingling taste of aluminum. “Put him back!” he snarls, forgetting himself enough to surge forward.

Damn that son of a bitch for touching Dad again. Damn him for thinking he has the _right_.

But Michael just looks at him blandly, and Dean realizes that he can’t do anything. The knife at his belt isn’t going to work on something like Michael, even if Dean could bring himself to drive it through his father’s chest. It hits him again—how easily he’s been maneuvered, how fucking powerless he is—and he hates it, he hates it almost as much as he hates Heaven for bending him over and fucking him senseless the way it has.

“What the fuck do you _want_?” he demands. “And how the fuck did you find me?”

“You Called, Dean,” Michael replies, ignoring Dean’s first question in favor of his second. “I knew you would eventually, so I was listening. And here I am.”

Now there’s terror fluttering around the wastes inside Dean, and he floods with ice as he whispers, “That wasn’t yes. I wasn’t—I wasn’t talking to you.”

Michael just looks at him, making Dean surer and surer that it was close enough for these feathered dicks—that any moment now a bright, blinding light is going to leap from Dad’s mouth to his own.

Then Michael says, “What do you think one of the primary duties of an archangel is, Dean? We listen to everyone’s prayers. We even answer a few.”

He steps forward again, and although Dean wants to back away, this time he can’t make his legs move. He can’t even get a breath while Michael scents him, Dad’s face held so close to his own. There’s nothing but hunger in Michael’s otherworldly eyes.

“You’ve been near Famine,” Michael says after a moment, and without moving back. “I can smell him on you.” He pauses, and when his voice comes again, it’s less pleased. “He touched you.”

“Possessive much?” Dean mumbles—that stupid self-defense mechanism of his acting up: the one Alistair was always so amused by in the Pit. Michael, though, seems to lack a demon’s sense of humor.

“Yes,” he answers, eyes intent and dark.

He puts a hand on Dean’s chest—the same place Famine touched him—and Dean flinches as a low thrum of electricity runs through his body. His cock hardens between his legs and his breath comes faster. His lips part on a low moan that he wishes sounded more reluctant than it does.

“Shhh,” Michael soothes, sliding their cheeks together as he leans his weight against Dean.

The angel is wearing Dad’s body and Dean wants to feel disgusted—he wants to feel filthy and violated—but instead his legs part slightly to allow Michael to press even closer. He shivers as the angel’s lips brush his ear, and then again as he feels an illusory, warm gust of air lap over his skin.

“So empty,” Michael rumbles, his hand a heavy weight above Dean’s heart. “You’re so hollow inside, Dean. Just for me. Just the way you were meant to be.”

He does kiss Dean then, lightly on the cheek, before moving back far enough that Dean can see his smile.

“You humans start out so full,” he says, thumbing at Dean’s jaw. “Hopes and dreams and loves—never any space for God anymore. It’s the one thing Hell is good for: making space.”

“You did this to me,” Dean chokes out, hardly daring to move for fear that the warmth stroking over his skin is going to make him do something stupid. He clings desperately to the weak flutter of hate that realization brings. “You son of a bitch.”

“No,” Michael corrects, laying a single finger across Dean’s lips. “It was not my hand on the knife that killed your brother. It was not my hand that buried your box at the crossroads. It was not I who stood over you on the rack those long, endless years. I was not the one who took you in his arms when you broke.”

Dean’s stomach heaves as the angel’s words bring that particular memory back to the surface—Alistair was so fucking _proud_ , beaming as Dean took the knife. He whispered sweet nothings in Dean’s ear as Dean cut. He coated his hands in blood and put them all over Dean’s skin, leaving him just as red and dripping as he was when he was the one strapped to the table.

Alistair always was a possessive son of a bitch; wanted to see Dean marked his—his toy, his protégé, his pet. Almost like he was showing off.

And suddenly, Dean is certain that that’s exactly what Alistair was doing.

“Did you watch?” he chokes out. “Huh? Did it get you off, you sick fuck?”

“I have always watched over you, Dean,” Michael replies calmly. “You’re my perfect vessel. I had to ensure you were being properly prepared.”

Dean’s body gives a stronger shake as he remembers some of the ways Alistair ‘prepared’ him in Hell—belly cut open with a pair of scissors; ribcage snapped and gaping; chunks of flesh cut from his thighs and biceps to feed the hounds—and then stills again as a stronger pulse of warmth washes through him, carrying the memories away.

“I have never harmed you. I am sorry that you had to suffer, but it was necessary.”

“That why Cas took so long pulling me out?” Dean spits. “What, thirty fucking years of torture wasn’t enough?”

“I had to be sure you had space to house me.” Michael’s eyes soften, and he tilts his head with a fond smile. “You were always so full before your descent, Dean. You had so much love and joy of life. You needed to be hollowed out before we could be joined as one.”

The love in Michael’s expression doesn’t look anything like Dean remembers Dad’s looking. There’s too much pride there; too much of Michael’s pitiless inhumanity and possessive desire. It’s disorienting, how alien that expression makes Dad’s face, and he wonders morbidly if this is what his brother will see when it happens to Dean.

“When you’re ready to be whole,” Michael whispers, stroking Dean’s hair, “You know how to reach me.”

Michael is gone before Dean can get the breath to deny him—which is a good thing, because despite his new insight on his time in Hell, Dean isn’t sure the word trying to bubble up from his chest was actually ‘no’. His insides ache, vaster and emptier than ever after the promise of Michael’s touch, and as his head spins, he sinks to kneel on the ground. Shutting his eyes, he turns his face to the side and rests his feverish brow against the Impala’s flank. The metal is cold on his skin: soothing.

Famine is dead or as good as—the fact that Cas hasn’t been within twenty miles of a burger since their confrontation in the diner is proof of that—but Dean can still hear the old man’s wheezing laughter. He can still feel the chill of his touch.

And he hungers.


End file.
